Do You Have A Warrant?

I had one thing to do before work. Julie, the old ball and chain, was getting her eyes dilated, so I had to pick her up from her appointment and take her home. Julie and Mary do so much for me that giving Julie a lift is the least I can do. Julie offered to take me to lunch at Nagao and that sealed the deal. The old adage, “I’d rather cloth em’ than feed em’” comes to mind, especially when it’s me and sushi.

The Brits have local pubs. Nagao was my local sushi bar. I remember the first time I went, it didn’t leave an impression on me, but I went back. I don’t know what it was but I was hooked. I remember when the owner and restaurant’s namesake, who happens to be super curmudgeonly, first said my name, I felt really special. In my mid to late twenties and early thirties, I spent more far more money there than I should have, but I could never say “no” to people who wanted to go. My favorite story occurred when I wasn’t even there. Julie went with our former neighbor, Lisa Fox, who was newly engaged. Nagao noticed Lisa’s rock and said to Julie, “I think David will give you a ring soon.” Julie replied, “I don’t think so, Nagao.” “No, Julie, David really likes you.” “It’s not gonna happen, Nagao.” This went back and forth until Nagao asked, “Why, Julie, is David gay?” I’m not sure why Nagao looked at my little friend in her Red Sox hat, mountaineering vest and, oh so, comfortable walking shoes, as the straight one in the relationship, but let’s not dwell on that. Through the din of the crowd, Julie replied, “No, Nagao, I am.” The story goes, he put his head down in shame and left work early. In any case, for lunch, we started off with albacore sushi with garlic, one of my favorite tastes on earth. We moved on to a spider roll, calamari salad, spicy scallop roll in soy bean paper, and ended with a UCLA roll. It was amazing, a great start to the day.

I got to work expecting big things. It was eighty at the beach so I figured people would be drinking. I was wrong. Except for a couple of Saturdays, my happy hours have been huge. Numbers wise it wasn’t too bad, but comparatively I felt that it sucked. One Euro dude came in and ordered a martini. “What kind?” I asked. “I don’t know.” he replied. I guess I snapped at him because his little friend told me to be nice. I guess I shouldn’t be so presumptuous that when someone asks for a drink, they know what the fuck they’re talking about. It’s a sign of burn out when you don’t have the patience to walk someone through their order. But if someone said to me, “I’m from the land of Speedo beach attire and I don’t know what a martini is, can you help me?” I would be far more receptive.

The night was decent. I was in a shitty mood for some reason. I try and get it up for work, but sometimes it doesn’t happen. It wasn’t until midnight, after a couple of shots, that my mood improved. The real excitement took place at the end of the night.

It’s amazing how Main and O’ Brien’s share a wall and a liquor license but are worlds apart. Being a club, Main can attract a fucked up crowd. The key is not letting the bad seeds in. They were at Main on Friday in full force. At the end of the night, there were no less than four fights broken up, including a girl on girl. I didn’t know much about this until two uniformed police officers walked into O’ Brien’s at three. One asked, “Who’s in charge?” After evacuating my bowels in my pants, I replied in my best Peter Brady puberty voice, “I am?” Turns out they had a blond woman, Sandy, and her boyfriend in tow and she had gotten a beat down earlier. As Sandy tells it, my boss told one of the security team, not to let a certain Latina in. This Latina eventually kicked Sandy’s ass. Sandy made it seem like she was totally innocent. The real story was, Sandy and the Latina had words outside and that’s what led to her scratched up face and welt on her head. The cops were there to watch our footage to identify the Latina.

After work, all I want is a drink and a smoke, so spending a half hour poring over unclear video footage with two unis standing behind me, isn’t my idea of a good time. When I say, “unclear video,” I mean I can barely recognize myself on camera. This whole experience was an exercise in futility. At the end, when nothing was resolved, Sandy wanted the person on our security staff fired. She never mentioned the Latina who tap danced on her face. Although I tried to be as cordial as possible, I wanted to throw Sandy down the stairs on the way out.

When all was said and done, I had one question, “Who let the cops in?” Turns out it was a bar back. I explained to him and everyone else, when the police show up after hours, don’t let them in, find a manager. That’s not official O’ Brien’s policy, it’s mine. This gives us a chance to pick up any stray glasses that may look like they were being served after hours, which NEVER HAPPENS. Before letting them in, my only question to the police would be, “Do you have a warrant?”